Is a non-drinker a deal-beaker when it comes to relationships?

I've been wondering about this topic quite a bit lately. I've had dates in recent months with men who 'no longer drink'. None would really go into detail about 'why' they stopped drinking, which brings up more than one concern.

Are they not drinking because they're allergic (understandable).  They have an issue with alcohol (angry drunk who gets in LOTS of trouble after a few cocktails = babysitting and anxiety where you're counting the drinks they have because you know the 'tipping point'. Or are they recovering alcoholics who literally can't have any alcohol or it sends them into a snowball effect.

Either way, the moment I find out the person doesn't drink, it makes me self-conscious about what I'm drinking. Two drinks to a non-drinker seems like a lot and there's this feeling of judgment. They're reflecting on their own journey with alcohol and if you don't meet their boundaries...there must be something wrong with you.  That's a lot to carry for someone else.

Not that I have anything against those who don't drink. I understand and respect the challenges around addiction or the desire to stay healthy and remove alcohol from their diets. But for me, I enjoy having a nice Brown Estate Zin with dinner, a great Tito's dirty martini after work to unwind, wine tasting in Yountville as a couple, trying a delicious French rose over a weekend brunch, sharing a bottle of vino while we cook dinner together (yep, I have the scenarios down and they're tried/tested and amazing) - all romantic experiences to me.

Of course, it's mandatory that my partner must handle their alcohol and doesn't become a mean/abusive/obnoxious drunk. I've experienced that in the past, several times, and it's scary and challenging. Standing at the bar watching and counting the number of drinks he's having, trying to subtly move the pint away from him so he doesn't notice, forcing water breaks, distracting him with conversations with his friends so he's not going for the next pint.  All to avoid the aftermath of crazy, angry, drunk guy who apologizes profusely in the morning.  Nope...not again.

Maybe the expectation to be with someone comfortable with (and can handle) alcohol comes from living in San Francisco where it's very much a drinking city - no matter the age range. Since I've lived in SF, I can't remember getting together with friends to catch up and alcohol was not involved: brunch, lunch, happy hour, dinner party, sharing major life news or experiences. All of that had a glass of wine or cocktail attached. I've heard various responses regarding this desire to have a partner who can drink - and it seems to be majority rules in "I need a partner who can enjoy a cocktail".

Do those who don't drink themselves have it tough in SF?  There are definitely a ton of things to do in SF that doesn't revolve around drinking; hiking, biking, skiing, the beach....I'm at a loss of what else because at the end I want a reward of a nice chair, cold Sancerre [or French rosé], and great conversation with my guy or group of friends. 

My Teen Lesson - First Car Accident

(example image of the model/color of my actual car)

I can recall being 18 years old when I purchased my first car. My dad co-signed for me to get a brand new Hyundai, four-door hatchback. I was so proud of that car and drove it everywhere - putting 50,000 miles on it within the first 18 months.

One day, on my way to a job interview, I was getting off the freeway in San Jose at the Great America Parkway and an 80 year old woman, driving a massive Cadillac, ran a read light (at full speed) and plowed into my driver's side.

I caught a glimpse of her coming out the corner of my eye as I entered the intersection but it was too late. Shock, and slow reflexes prevented me from accelerating or reversing and I just threw my hands up towards my face to protect the glass that was about to shatter onto me. Her impact was so fierce she turned my car into a complete 180 and pushed me out of the intersection.

Luckily the car waiting at the light behind me was driven by an off-duty firefighter who suddenly was sitting in my backseat, holding my head against my headrest. Why? Because he saw me trying to climb out of my car via the passenger side so I could go curse the old lady out for hitting me. I didn't realize I was in shock, bleeding from the glass that had shattered into my hands, face and neck. He got into my backseat and pulled me back to my seat and sternly told me to sit still until the ambulance came. The entire time I was fussing and cursing the old lady who was sitting stunned (and completely unharmed) in her car.

The firefighter told me he'd seen the entire accident and the old lady was far behind the line when our light turned green but she kept coming, never hitting her breaks.

The ambulance came and they put me and the old lady in the same vehicle and drove us to Good Samaritan, refusing to take me to Kaiser because it was 'too far'. I overheard them complaining that they were almost off their shift and didn't want to drive that distance.

At the hospital, I was stuck in a hallway for hours before someone came to stitch up my hand and pluck the glass out of my face with tweezers. They forgot to call my emergency contacts and after six hours I demanded they let me go. I refused the stitches, and after they argued I'd have a scar if I didn't, I declared: "I really don't think someone's not going to marry me because I have a scar on the inside of my hand". At that, they discharged me and I called a friend to come pick me up.

In the end, my car was totaled out and I was shocked I hadn't been more injured based on how the car looked - the entire driver's side was smashed in. I lost out on the job opportunity because they considered me a 'no-show'. The craziest part? My insurance, State Farm, was the same as the old lady's so I was screwed in my settlement. My parents weren't of any help in guiding me through the process, it was all new to me so I didn't understand my rights, and so I accepted what they offered - $5,000. Not even enough to cover the full value of the car - leaving me to still have to pay off the balance owed.

Ah, the lessons we have to learn on our own.

Hair Story: Why Black Women Don't Swim - Essence.com

Hair Story: Why Black Women Don't Swim - Essence.com

This is an interesting article, however I wish they had gone more in-depth about this. The one thing I agree with is that we will not enter the water if we have just had our hair done at the salon. That is indeed the equivalent of buying a new pair of suede shoes and immediately walking out in the rain. Those shoes are either destroyed or you have a whole lot of work to do to get them back to decent order. The chlorine and the water itself removes any style, length, texture we had previously whether we have a relaxer or not. If our hair is natural and we've pressed our hair into a style, the water will destroy any work that was done and we would literally have to start over from scratch. If we are traveling, having to go through that process is almost impossible. Other cultures can shampoo, blow dry and they're done. That process cannot be accomplished with the average African American woman.

For me, you won't see me getting my hair wet unless I'm around people I feel EXTREMELY comfortable and safe with. The texture, length and quality just changes and I look like a completely different person. It's just not something I am comfortable putting out there for the world to see. I'm not ashamed of my hair but I understand there are those who are uncomfortable and judgmental about our hair and it's one of those situations you just want to keep 'in the family'. :) Our hair just doesn't respond to water like it does other cultures.

VW's 'Un-Pimp My Ride' is Classic

The ad agency of Crispin Porter and Bogusky have outdone themselves by creating this series of commercials for VW's new car launch. I'm not one to watch anything repeatedly but I have made an exception with this one. They're hilarious each time. CPG definitely did their homework and knew exactly the audience they were targeting, which makes for an even richer and longer lasting campaign. Check out the series of 3 for 'Un-Pimp My Ride'.

I have a friend who lives in Idaho and she says no one in the area gets the commercials and don't find them funny. I say, 'thank goodness since they're not the target anyway'. If you've ever watched any of MTV's original programming (Pimp My Ride, RW/RR Challenge, Punk'd, etc.) for fun or as a guilty pleasure, you're the target.

Enjoy (for many days to come)!

Shopping with Mom

October 28, 2004
When I was 12, my mom and I started a ritual. Every Saturday she would wake me up at 6am and we’d get dressed and spend the entire day shopping. She’d give me my allowance which was usually $5 and we’d head to the first spot which was the Capital Flea Market in South San Jose, about 10 minutes away from our house. It was actually a drive-in theatre that turned into a flea market on the weekends. For some reason we both became hooked on Rain-Blo bubble gum and sought it out every weekend at the flea market. We found one vendor who sold them by the box, like you see in the corner store. Mommy would buy a box of them and depending on her mood she’d buy me a box. If she wasn’t in the best of moods, I had to use my allowance to purchase a box.

I hated going to the flea market during the summer as it was unbearably hot and dry. The flea markets didn’t have shade and it was Mommy’s goal to start at one end and work her way up and down each aisle until the end making sure she didn’t miss anything. That was at least three hours of walking. I know, everyone has bad summers but this is all I knew and for me it was miserable. It wasn’t the type of heat that came with a breeze or moisture. It was dry and burning. I could feel my forehead sizzling and turning black. I was a kid who hated any physical activity that made me sweat. So to walk around a flea market with my mom was fun because I was with her, which was my favorite thing to do in the world, but the heat caused me to sweat to the point where my shirt would be wet and I could feel the moisture running down my back.

It was so hot I couldn’t wear closed shoes like sneakers or loafers. I had to wear sandals or flip-flops. This was gross for me considering even at age 10 I was a OCD about cleanliness. I hated getting dirty, sweating and having anything touch my feet other than nice plush, clean, carpet. However, if I wanted to hang out with Mommy at the flea market, it was either expose my feet or have them sweat to death. I wanted to cry when she’d decide to go to the farmer’s market section. There would be smashed fruits and vegetables on the ground and I’d do everything possible to keep from having any of it touch my feet to the point of walking on the heels of my sandals to make sure nothing touched me.

My mom always thought I was being dramatic and ignored me but it was something that almost brought me to tears. I would immediately rush to the bathroom when we got home and washed my feet. I’d beg for handy wipes if we were going to make any other stops. I finally started asking my mom where we were going each morning and only if we were skipping the flea market would I wear my flip-flops.

But all that aside hanging out with my mom on Saturday mornings were the best.

They were the best when she was in a good mood. She’d joke with me and at the flea market we’d share a cup of French fries or she’d give me money to get an ice cream cone. I loved sharing my food with my mom. I felt like I was giving her something back.

The second stop on our Saturday shopping trips would be to the local thrift stores. They all smelled the same. Musty from unwashed old clothes and furniture. But Mommy loved those places and came away with some good finds on pots, toasters, can openers, books and sometimes she’d get clothes there for her and us. My dad hated her going to those stores. He felt we were not poor and should not buy other people’s cast-offs. His complaints were ignored and he realized it so he just asked her not to ever buy shoes from thrift stores. He felt people could have infections or athlete’s feet and he didn’t want that brought into the house. Just thinking of that grosses me out and to this day I won’t buy shoes from consignment shops. But Mommy didn’t care, she’d find shoes she liked and sneak them in the house and Daddy wouldn’t know the difference. Sometimes when we were shopping she’d try and get me to try on a pair of shoes and I’d complain until she said forget it.

Our next stop of the day would be any garage sale happening on the way to the grocery store. My mom was such a garage sale fanatic that she’d almost leave tire marks coming to a stop if she passed one. She’d always make me look out the car window to see if there was anything good. I was her radar. We spent so much time together I actually knew what she would and wouldn’t like. She trusted me and if I said stop, she’d pull over. It was always a 50/50 chance she’d buy something but she had to stop just in case to make sure she wasn’t missing something. We had more Tupperware containers and pots and pans than anyone I knew then or know now.

Our final stop would be the grocery store which was uneventful but Mommy still had to go up and down each aisle even if she had a list. If she was in a good mood she’d play with me there and as I walked ahead of her she’d pinch or tickle me and when I squealed and squirmed away she’d laugh and ask, “what’s wrong with you little girl, is that a new dance?” I’d look at her with playful anger and tell her no and she’d say, “I think that is a new dance, show me again”, and she’d pinch me again. This continued down the aisle until my squeals were too loud for her. At that point her face would turn from playful to grouchy and she’d pull away from me and tell me to stop being so loud. She asked me, “Why do you have to ruin it by being so loud?” I didn’t realize I was ruining anything, I was just having fun and I was a kid, we have no sense of decibels and when loud is too loud. At that point she’d refuse to talk to me or play and she was back to the business of grocery shopping. That was hard to understand. No one was looking at us or judging her, she was a mom playing with her daughter. But she didn’t see it that way. She told me I was acting a fool in public. This pattern of our Saturday shopping trips went on for years from when I was 8 until I was 16.

It hurt when we’d go shopping and she was in a bad mood or her mood would turn sour. We’d still have our ritual stops but she was quiet, grouchy and everything I said, did or touched got on her nerves. This resulted in my getting in trouble over the smallest things (touching something, walking too slowly, being too loud, etc.) which usually resulted in my being yelled at in front of other people. I hated that. She could have done anything to me, taken something away but to yell at me in public was the worst. I felt so small and I’d refuse to cry so I’d swallow my tears and feel like I was choking on a lump where it sat in my chest for the rest of the day.

My Mom, the Military & 1964

October 10, 2004
My mother, Margaret, is from Cleveland Ohio and at age 27, decided she needed to leave Cleveland and build a life for herself and that life was the military.  Margaret first went to Alabama for physical training which was not great considering it was the Deep South in 1963-64.  She dealt with the ‘white’ and ‘colored’ bathrooms and barracks.  Most challenging was having to rely on her white colleagues to order food at the local restaurants and bring it outside to them for consumption in their car because blacks weren’t allowed inside.

Margaret was excited when she received a notice stating she was being relocated to Japan considering her most recent experience in Alabama.  She had been coming back to Alabama on the Greyhound after a recent holiday from visiting her family in Cleveland.  Because she was heading back to the military base, she was dressed in her full army uniform.  She was so exhausted from the ride that she fell asleep and missed her stop to transfer buses that would get her back to her barracks location.  Once she was realized the error, she asked the bus driver what to do next.  He suggested she get off at the next stop, and take bus 32 which was heading back in the direction she just missed.  

Upon arriving at the next stop, she secured her luggage and walked over to bus 32 and to make sure she asked the driver if he was heading back to the military base in Alabama.  The driver sat for a moment staring at my mother in her army uniform.  He was an older white man in his late 40’s with a blotchy face and swollen belly that exposed his years of drinking.  He finally replied in a dismissive tone, “You’re not riding my bus”.  My mom stood there confused, unsure of what he meant and was wondering if she’d walked up to the wrong bus.  She stepped back, looked at the bus number and approached the driver again.  “Excuse me sir”, she said, “I missed my stop on the last bus and that driver said for me to take your bus to get back”, she said, pointing to the bus she just left.  The driver now was looking at my mom with sincere disgust and repeated those five words, “you’re not riding my bus”.

Feeling utterly confused but also embarrassed, Margaret picked up her bags and headed into the train station.  She went to the ticket counter and explained her situation of needing to get back to her military base.  The ticket agent confirmed that bus 32 was indeed the bus she needed to take to get back and Margaret took a deep breath and headed back outside to the bus 32 driver.  As she approached the driver, she was scared as she realized she was alone but her desire to get back was stronger.  She walked up to the bus driver who was standing on the last step of the bus entrance, drew herself up to her full 5’6” frame and said, “excuse me, but the ticket agent inside said your bus is indeed the bus I should take to bring me back to the Alabama Army Base”.  

The bus driver stepped down and took two steps toward my mom, making sure his full height and belly towered over her.  He looked down at her as if she were an annoying bug he thought he’d ridden himself of and it now had appeared again on the end of his fork.  He stepped so closely to my mom that she had to lean back.  Although she tried to stand her ground, his weight and smell continued to force her backwards and she finally had to take a step back.  She kept her head up and never took her eyes off his.  Finally, he yelled with the level of menace you’d expect from someone who would really like to see you dead, “look, I don’t care what he told you, you are not and will not ride on my bus”.  He leaned forward in one motion with such force that my mom stumbled back, to which he turned, stepped onto his bus and closed the door in her face.

Feeling completely humiliated my mom smoothed out the front of her uniform and tried to avoid eye contact with those who were standing outside the bus station watching the entire exchange.  She refused to cry in front of these people so she bent to pick up her bags and fighting the tightness in her chest and the sting of tears to come, she walked back into the bus station.  She went back to the ticket counter and to the agent she’d previously spoken to.  She relayed the incident to the ticket agent who looked at her with the pity one would give to a child who couldn’t grasp the answer to a math problem and said, “Well honey, if the man says you can’t ride his bus, that means you can’t ride his bus”.   He told her the next bus would arrive in three hours and she was welcome to wait in the terminal until that time.

Margaret sat on the hard station benches for the entire three hours.  Her throat burning the entire time from the tears and pride she’d had to swallow.  By this time Margaret was exhausted and stressed at the thought of missing her curfew.  The bus came when the agent said and Margaret boarded the bus and made the ride back to the military base without another incident.

Margaret would remember that story vividly for the next 20+ years but never shared it with anyone until she told me over dinner two years ago in 2004.

9/11/01 - An American in Turkey (Part One)

I can’t believe it’s been four years since our lives changed dramatically from the World Trade Center disaster.

I wasn’t even here at the time.  I was on holiday sailing around the bays in Turkey with nine people.  We were all brought together by one friend who was originally from New Zealand.  It was the greatest experience as the boat had nine personalities from all over the world.  We were from Madrid, Auckland, New York, San Francisco, Brussels, and Sydney.

We were sailing from September 6th to the 16th.  The holiday started out wonderfully.  The weather was beautiful, the views were amazing.  We had a Turkish crew that included a captain, cook and a steward.  We’d sail in the morning to a set location and hang out all day.  We only needed to purchase the alcohol and the crew provided breakfast, lunch and dinner.

On the 11th, it started out as a day the same as others.  We’d docked close to a beach and in the middle of the water was this astonishingly high rock protruding from the sea.  Everyone climbed as far as they could and dove from the highest area of the rock.  Around 7pm our CD player that had been playing non-stop for the past five days, finally died.  So as we were sailing to the next bay to prepare for the night and dinner, we asked our captain to take us back to the beach to go ashore and buy batteries.

Three of us took the small row boat that was attached to our larger boat and went ashore.  As we were climbing out of the boat and wading, calf-deep in the shallow water I looked around and noticed the clusters of people lounging on the beach.  They looked relaxed and calm and then I heard this voice coming across what sounded like a sound-system.  It seemed odd to me that this vast beach could carry a voice that far.  The boardwalk area was about a city block away and it just seemed strange to hear this deep, British voice speaking in an eerily hushed tone.  The first thing I thought was this guy sounded like a golf commentator.  But then I realized, what would a golf commentator be doing announcing something across a beach.

Only when one of the friends with us froze in his steps and then took off up the beach to the boardwalk did I start to listen to what was being said.  Instead of how it was being said.  I heard him say, “this is the worst event in U.S. history…” and then my heart stopped.  I immediately thought there was an earthquake or some other natural disaster.  Never did my mind go to the area of a terrorist attack.

At the boardwalk there was only one bar with a rooftop deck that had a large screen TV playing.  Once we got to the deck, we realized that was the voice we’d heard on the beach.  When we arrived, the place was empty.  We stood at the bar, too much in shock and fear for what we might see to sit down.  As we looked at the screen I heard the BBC reporter say, “what you’re about to see is quite disturbing”.  Then came the image of the twin towers.  A plane was flying through the air heading towards the buildings.  My first thought of denial came about when I thought to myself, “wow, I didn’t realize the towers were so high in the sky that they were at the same level as planes”.  Then I watched as the plane disappeared between the towers.  I instantly looked to the other side of the buildings waiting to see the plane come out on the other side.  I assumed it was flying in between the buildings.  And then the explosion filled the screen.  I gasped and our friend sank into the bar stool.

We watched in shock and horror as the events unfolded and realized it was happening live.  We were about 10 hours ahead of New York.  Then I remembered that the friend who sank into the bar stool was from New York.  I asked him if he was okay and he couldn’t speak.  He finally couldn’t take watching the footage anymore and asked us to leave with him.  He stated that it wasn’t a matter of which of his friends were in the building but how many.  When we turned to leave, the bar was packed.  We were in such shock, we didn’t hear or feel the place fill up.  

Upon reaching the boardwalk, our friend could barely walk.  I and our other friend had to hold him up and we went to the nearest pay phone.  He wanted to call his family.  The phone lines were all busy and congested so we walked until we found an internet café where he could try and email his family.

By that time, our other friends had heard the same announcer from the boat and come to shore to find us.  We continued to watch the footage on the internet café’s TV for the next three hours.

The tragic thing about it was when we had a group of European men arrive in the café and asked the owner to turn the TV to a sports game.  Our friends were shocked and the group told us to relax.  That we were arrogant American’s to think that the world stopped because something had happened in our country.  They wondered if our world stopped when tragic events happened in Europe?

We left soon after and upon arriving back to our boat, we were all exhausted and still in shock.  Then the captain from a neighboring boat came over and started to tell our captain that the U.S. now knew what it felt like.  He assumed we were all Europeans and he continued that we deserved it.  We instantly told him to get off of our boat.

For the next several days we felt isolated and scared.  We’d received a notice from our travel agent that upon our arrival to Istanbul on the 16th (our date to return home), we should not let anyone know some of us were Americans.  That Turkey was the ‘Gateway to the Middle East’ and for us to be careful and lay low.